


Without a Sound

by OctaviaPeverell



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Muteness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-15 10:23:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1301452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctaviaPeverell/pseuds/OctaviaPeverell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time he sees her, he wants to tell them it is all a mistake; that they have brought the wrong girl. He wants to say that his half-sister, now cousin, had laughing blue eyes, with her face tilted upwards just so, with a mane of silken fire. He wants to say that Sansa Stark was lost, perished somewhere out in the wilderness of Westeros. He wants to say that this creature is not her. But he can’t because the air has been stolen from his lungs and the muscles of his jaw are locked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. with dainty feet she dances on thin ice

**Author's Note:**

> I really hope you guys read this before embarking on this clusterfuck of canon of a story. 
> 
> I started this because of an idea - it wasn't a very good one but it took hold of my fingers and within a few days I'd written 20k and only gotten about a third of the way through the story. I've trailed off now, but I've got everything planned out and will attempt to finish this. I aim to update this once a week until I've got no more words to post but I'll do my best to keep on top of things. But seriously, doing an MA is _hard work, yo._
> 
> There are plot holes. We are talking plot _sink holes_ , here. There are convenient re-writes of canon. I have conveniently _ignored_ other parts of canon. There will probably be ignored canon errors. In terms of personalities and appearance, I've gone with a bastardised melding of the show and the books. Details are overlooked, others are exaggerated. 
> 
> Also, **I am not a doctor or a psychiatrist** and I've played with a trope and run with it in various unscientific directions. But it's all in the name of fic. 
> 
> **THIS STORY IS UN-BETAED** so I do apologise for any errors. I'm reading as closely as possible without screwing up my eyes. 
> 
> Also, this is complete and utter fiction and so, like many stories out there, you may not like this at all. And that's totally fine with me. I just wanted to share something that my brain created in its less than sane moments. 
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are totally welcome and I always respond to comments so if you have something to say, don't be shy!

Jon

When Jon first sees the figures in the distance, coming over the hill towards Winterfell, he thinks nothing of it and all but forgets it not moments later. People – Free Folk mostly – are coming and going as they please now that the North has seceded and a Targaryen watches over it. Daenerys had seen to it when he refused her proposed marriage. Winterfell is noisy once more and Jon is content for it – happy even, now that he has a family, a rowdy mix of Northeners and Wildlings. 

Yes, Winterfell is full once more despite the buildings that need mending and the homes that need rebuilding. 

His was one such home for a time until he had found the little ones who were not so little anymore, or they had come back to him and taken their rightful places back home in the North. It is not perfect, nor will it ever be, but it is enough for Jon. 

Bran is seated on the dais in the great hall, his eyes unseeing and milky white and seemingly unaware of the people – builders and carpenters mostly – who hurry back and forth carrying planks of wood and other materials. A storm is coming and they can all feel it in the air and the way the animals take shelter and fall silent. It will arrive just after nightfall, Jon thinks; and that is but an hour or more away. 

“What do you see, Bran?” Jon asks when Bran comes to and rubs his forehead absently. Summer sits resolutely at his feet, ears pricking only when Ghost pads towards him for a quick nuzzle. 

“I don’t know. I don’t even know what I was,” Bran replies, looking at him steadily, and sometimes Jon has to catch himself at the foreign look on his little brother’s face. Different entirely from Robb but for the solemnity around his eyes. “Everything’s grey. Grey and red. I don’t understand it.”

Jon has learnt never to take the words of anyone unlikely lightly. Least of all Bran, whose Sight still instils concern and wariness within him. He grips Bran on the shoulder and squeezed reassuringly. 

“What do you _feel_?”

With a look in his deep blue eyes that reminds Jon far too much of Eddard Stark, Bran says quietly, “Fear. Sadness.” He trailed off and swallowed uncomfortably. “Shame.” His gaze snaps back to Jon’s, hard and fierce. “Someone’s coming.”

At that moment several things happen. The winds begin to howl through the stone and brick of their home and distantly a particularly strong gust unsettle a pile of logs, causing them to roll down from their formation and catch a man off his feet. There is urgent shouting outside and heavy footfalls as the men and women of the North struggle to complete their tasks and brace themselves against the oncoming storm. The candles die too, leaving the hall in near darkness, but already Jon can see the servants and maids scurrying to light only some of the thicker, heavier torches. Resources were thin and shipments and goods from the South arriving farther and farther apart with the continuing winter – they had to stretch their wares for as long as possible. Jon runs outside to help, moving supplies and materials into their relevant storehouses. The people of Winterfell move as quickly and efficiently as possible, bracing themselves against the frigid winds that threaten to set them back a few paces. He vaguely hears Val’s commanding voice before it is drowned out by the howls of the wind that seem to surge louder and louder around them and it is not until he sees a flash of white – Ghost and Summer emerging from the hall – that he realises it is not just the wind. Both direwolves have their faces raised against the weather and their howls are joined by two more, Shaggydog and Nymeria from somewhere else around them amidst the chaos. 

Jon is not the only one to notice, and several of the Free Folk, Tormund amongst them, stops to gaze at them before he meets Jon’s eye, a shadowed look across his craggy face. 

“Jon!” He turns and sees Arya running towards him, eyes squinted as the first flurries of snow land atop her dark hair. “We’ve stored the grains inside the keep. They’ll be safe tonight. What in hell’s going on with the wolves? They’re not scared, are they?” She gestures to them irritably and Jon notes that Shaggydog and Nymeria are now stood by them as their howling continues. 

It sends a chill down his spine that has nothing to do with the cold but he’s unsure as to whether it is fear or something else. It feels like anticipation – like something important is about to happen. 

Just as Jon recalls the figures moving towards Winterfell another voice calls to him, urgent and fearful and he steels himself to meet Sam, panting and breathing heavily and where his face should be red from exertion, it looks like all the blood has left him. He stops in front of them, eyes shifting between him and Arya, who stands there with her hands on her hips, impatient as ever. 

“Jon,” he breathes, voice shaking, “there’s…someone at the gate.”

“Who?” he asks immediately, but his old friend winces and shakes his head. 

“Best you come see for yourself. You too my la- _Arya_. Mayhaps His Grace should-”

“Just Bran, Sam,” Bran calls, already being carried down the steps by Hodor towards his chair, with Rickon scampering into view, looking wildly excited with all the drama. 

“What’s happenin’, Jon?” he demands, a giant grin on his face. 

“So someone’s come to visit,” Arya interjects, scowling her usual scowl even as she marches along with them. “S’nothin’ new. Could’ve chosen a better season.”

But they’re already making their way towards the gate where a crowd seems to have gathered in their haste. It strikes Jon as strange to see Wildling and Northerner alike, murmuring to each other, their gazes drawn to the gates. The name goes through the crowd like a wave until it reaches Jon’s ears and he froze, his heart beating against his ribs. 

Kingslayer. 

And sure enough, there he is. The longer hair, the beard, the dirt on his face and the worn, nearly threadbare layers of clothing he wore do nothing to hide the cunning green eyes Jon remembers from all those years ago. 

“Is that-!” comes Arya’s voice, sounding harsh and incredulous with a promise of death trailing in its wake. 

Jon’s hand goes instinctively to his sword but Bran is by his side in a moment, stilling his movements with a gentle hand on Jon’s forearm. Together, as a family, they move towards the enemy of their past, the one responsible for Bran’s legs, the member of a cursed family who drove the Starks from their home and murdered those of their blood. There is anger burning in Jon’s belly, anger and hatred and the need to _hurt_ somebody and Jaime Lannister would do just fine. 

The wind has died down somewhat but the snow continues to fall and the air is still filled with their direwolves’ howls until they come to a stop before the visiting party. 

While Jon knows never to take his eye off his enemy he is immediately drawn towards the mountain of a women who strides towards the Kingslayer’s side. The Kingslayer catches his eye and _grins_ the same cocky grin Jon remembers of old. It sets his teeth on edge and he grits them so loudly he hears them as the wind finally dies, setting the scene for this tense encounter. 

The woman speaks first, striding forward to kneel, wearing nothing but a patchy tunic, breeches and a thick cloak across her shoulders. Her movements, however, speak of one who was highborn. 

“Your Grace, Lord Targaryen,” she says deferentially, looking to both Jon and Bran. Her face shows nothing but respect as she stands once more, taller than Jon even. “I am Brienne of Tarth, travelling with my companion-”

“Jaime Lannister,” Bran intercepts calmly, his gaze driven to the fair-haired man. “We meet again.”

A low muttering goes amongst their spectators and for some absurd reason Jon wants them gone – he doesn't want them to see the man who cost Bran his legs or Jon his composure. This should be private yet he feels like an actor in a play, exposed to all the audience who will see when he finally breaks his calm and runs the Kingslayer through. Jon thought him long dead yet here he is to haunt them all, a ghost from their past. 

“Indeed we do, young king,” the Kingslayer says, strolling forward casually and bowing deeply. “King in the North,” he greets, and then turns to Jon, where his grin grows wider. “And of course, Prince Jon Sno- oh, do forgive me. Prince Jon _Targaryen_ ,” he chuckles and it is both mocking and infuriating so the point where Jon can see Arya baring her teeth next to him, hissing warningly. “My, my, we have worked our way up.”

The giant woman, Brienne of Tarth, mutters something under her breath – his name, perhaps, a warning probably, for the Kingslayer smiles beguilingly and nods his head in a farce for a bow. 

“Why have you come?” Jon demands. “I would have thought the Kingslayer wouldn’t dare stepping foot inside of Winterfell once more.”

“What can I say? I have grown fond of Northerners.”

“We come bearing no ill will, Your Grace. We come only to fulfil an oath,” Brienne interrupts, shooting her companion a dirty look that Jon would have appreciated any other time. 

“And why should we trust any oath from a _Lannister_?” Arya sneers, stepping forward casually, her eyes burning only for the Kingslayer. “Moreover, who’d be stupid enough to hold _you_ to any promise?”

“Someone you might regret insulting when you find out,” the Kingslayer grins toothily at Arya and Bran has to say her name to stop her from lunging at him. When Jaime Lannister turns to Jon and Bran then, there is a peculiar look in his eyes, as if he is trying to figure out something just by looking at them. “Tell me, my lords, what do you know of the Vale?”

Jon and Bran glance between each other, relaying their confusion, before looking back to the Kingslayer. 

“I know that it took Queen Daenerys’ forces three weeks to breach the Eyrie and capture Petyr Baelish,” Jon answers lowly. “The Mountains of the Moon are treacherous in winter but the Eyrie itself was not as impregnable as once thought. Not in the face of dragon fire.”

With an answering hum, the Kingslayer glances tellingly at Brienne and shakes his head. They are meant to see this, they are meant to feel as if the Kingslayer and his companion know something more and aren’t telling. And Jon, tired of such games, is about to demand answers when the thrice-cursed Lannister bastard speaks again. 

“And why were you not there, _My Prince?_ Why did you not seek vengeance upon the man who betrayed your…uncle?”

Jon stiffens, glaring at the man with the cold desire to maim him and make him bleed. “I need not justify myself to _you_ , Lannister. In my own home, no less. Not all of us are bent on vengeance.”

The man laughs, full and humorous and the faces of all those gathered darken until the torches they carry cast their black faces in harsh relief and their eyes glint with the promise of steel at the man who insults their leader. At one time Jon might have felt humiliated at his people witnessing this mocking but now he trusts them enough to know their loyalty, which is plain to see in their expressions. 

Green eyes shine orange in the firelight and the Kingslayer’s features fix themselves into something smiling but hard beneath his amused veneer. “I wonder now, whether I made a mistake coming here. ”

 _Then why in all seven hells did you bother?_ Jon wants to ask but Rickon’s voice cuts through his unasked question. 

“Who’s that?” he asks, his voice loud in the tense silence and confused, as he points behind the Kingslayer and Brienne and Jon nearly does a double take when he sees the dark, hooded figure on an even darker horse moving slowly towards the light, their presence dwarfed by the two assuming figures. He had not realised there was another and it seems that neither did the rest of the folk if their hushed chatter is anything to go by. 

“Jon,” Arya hisses, hand drawn to Needle and ready to pull it from her waist at any moment. Their wolves have started to howl again and Jon’s skin prickles. 

“Did you know,” the Kingslayer remarks as he steps back towards the dark horse, “that we could hear your wolves coming over the hills? They were quite loud, were they not, Brienne?” The woman looks uncomfortable but stands her ground.

“Who is that?” Jon demands, and begins to march towards them but for Bran’s hand on his arm and when he looks down, his brother seems just as puzzled as the rest of them but there is something in his face that makes Jon take pause, something almost fearful. 

“We made a promise, my lords,” Brienne says, her voice trembling so slightly that any fear she inhibits is stolen by the wind. 

“What promise?” Bran’s hand is gripping Jon’s so tightly that he can feel his nails digging into his skin. “What promise did you make?”

“Bran,” Jon hushes him. 

Their people are getting excited and Jon would be lying if he said he doesn’t feel the old nerves creeping up his spine and he instinctively takes count of his family, looking at Sam, whose eyes are wide in their sockets even as he tries to quiet those around him. He sees Tormund looking gruff as usual and catches sight of Val’s fair hair and narrowed gaze. 

From this distance and in the swirling snow and spluttering torchlight Jon can see that the figure is small despite the heavy, dark furs. Their gloves are too large from where they grip the reins and both the figure and the creature seem to shy away from prying eyes and those who got too close but the Kingslayer soothes the steed with one hand and Jon finally remembers hearing tales of the lost hand when he sees one of them shines gold and unmoving. Still, there is no mistaking the gentleness – or caution, Jon wonders tensely – when the Kingslayer reaches up with both hands and gently lifts the creature from its horse, their hands landing on his shoulders. 

He hears a gasp and immediately finds Bran gripping the arms of his chair, his eyes fading from white. “No,” he whispers. “It can’t… _Jon_.”

“We made a promise, my lords, to your lady mother,” Brienne continues and the whispers escalate, their voices getting louder, and Jon wants to shout _whose mother?_ but he can’t because the Kingslayer is already walking the third visitor towards them, one arm around their back – protectively, Jon realises, but it gives away nothing of their identity. “We are only sorry that it has taken so long,” she finishes.

The third one stops between Brienne and the Kingslayer, standing so much smaller than both of them, shoulders hunched and narrow. Bran holds up a hand for silence, jaw clenched tight, and the rest of his folk are quick to follow. 

“Who are you?” he asks, _coldly_ , but there is no anger behind it that Jon can hear. “Show me your face.”

The Kingslayer regards Bran stoically and then turns his back on the King in the North to whisper into the hooded figure’s face. Jon doesn’t know what he says but from his stance and from the way Brienne tilts her head and angles her body towards them, Jon thinks it might be encouragement or support and his mind is awhirl both from the storm and from Bran’s strange reaction. 

Slowly, the Kingslayer pushes the heavy, low hood back from the figure’s face, saying quietly, “I present to you, the promise I have fulfilled Lady Catelyn Stark. I present to you, Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell.” He steps away as her name leaves his lips, revealing her face. 

The hush that befalls the crowd is one of disbelief and there is no sound safe for the sparking of the torches as snow falls into the burning wood. 

The first time he sees her, he wants to tell them it is all a mistake; that they have brought the wrong girl. He wants to say that his half-sister, now cousin, had laughing blue eyes, with her face tilted upwards just so, with a mane of silken fire. He wants to say that Sansa Stark was lost, perished somewhere out in the wilderness of Westeros. He wants to say that this creature is not her. But he can’t because the air has been stolen from his lungs and the muscles of his jaw are locked. 

This is not Sansa Stark. 

Her bones are too thin and her eyes too dull. Her skin looks grey and her lips pale and unsmiling, with none of the youthful flush she had as a young girl. She looks tired and not just from whatever journey she was on to finally arrive at Winterfell. There is a weariness about her face, about the way she holds her hands close to her chest, about her eyes that dart up and around her from her lowered face, and the way she never looks directly at the Starks lined up in front of her. 

What strikes Jon, however, what very nearly wounds him is that there are no long tresses of red hair, no braids or intricate up do’s, no ribbons or flaming wisps being blown about her cheeks. The hair is shorn and shoddily so, close to her head. There are longer tufts sticking up slightly from where they had been disturbed by the fabric of her hood. At other areas it has been cut so close that Jon can see the paleness of her scalp. 

It is gone; all her lovely hair is gone; all of what was once Sansa Stark is nowhere to be seen from this skittish creature. _She cannot be her_ , Jon thinks even as he struggles to quell his breathing. 

It is Bran who speaks first, his voice cracking in pain, question and wonder. 

“ _Sansa._ ”

She looks up and this time her gaze carries Bran’s, an unreadable expression on her face. And then, slowly, she steps forward and Jon’s heart beats fast because he _recognises_ those movements. She stops a few feet away from Bran and _curtsies_ , bowing her head low like he remembers from so long ago. 

Bran inhales sharply and starts to say something but she is already rising and turning to Jon, fixing her pale blue eyes on his and _yes_. It’s her. Jon feels it more than sees it. _It’s her_. She places one more foot in front of the other until she is standing in front of him and maybe it is the weight of her clothes but Jon thinks her movements are jilted and unsteady. And when she curtsies once more, this time to _him_ , he can’t help but think how wrong it is, how she should not be bowing to _him_ of all the people in the world. He can’t bear to see her, this thin, frail girl on the ground before him. It’s not right. 

Jon watches, still caught in his own thoughts, as one of her feet give way and both her hands meet the frozen snow, a soft, almost soundless gasp leaving her throat.   
“Sansa!” Bran shouts. 

Too surprised to gather himself in time, he moves a moment too late, for the Kingslayer and the giant woman are already by her side and Jon is silently taken aback by the man’s expression as he gently takes her hand and pulls her up, all the while sending Jon a look that could mean loathing or a warning or both. He doesn't understand why and feels so out of his depth as he’s ever felt in a very long time that he just stands there like some mindless green boy, not missing the way Sansa’s eyes flutter against a grey cheek as she leans into the Kingslayer’s side, her other hand clutching Brienne’s. 

It’s almost too much to take in, too much to understand this strange companionship and there is also a subtle surge of anger and indignation on his part at Sansa’s obvious trust in the Kingslayer, the man who tore Bran’s life apart, the lion whose family who tore the wolves apart. It feels like betrayal and he wants to know _why_. 

Sam shakily steps forward then, briefly catching Jon’s gaze before addressing Bran. “The lady is tired, Your Grace. Perhaps we ought to bring her inside?” He looks around at the other onlookers, wincing at their attentiveness as they greedily try and take in the lost Stark sister. 

Jon has never been more grateful for his old friend than he is now. 

“Of course,” Bran says immediately, his hands already on the wheels of his chair, and Jon can tell that he’s not the only one relieved to distance themselves form their audience, “help my sister inside and someone tend to her horse.”

Still unsure of himself, Jon moves towards Sansa, intending to take her arm, but as soon as she sees him, she takes a step back, eyes large, and the Kingslayer shields her from view. 

He smiles politely but his eyes are hard. “Mayhaps _I_ should take the Lady Sansa inside.”

Bran comes forward but Jon speaks before his cousin can get a word in edgewise. “Mayhaps the Lady Sansa can speak for _herself_ ,” he bites out, feeling an irrational amount of hatred for this Lannister swine. 

The smile that grows on the Kingslayer’s face is anything but courteous and Sansa looks up at Jon with the most horrifying look of despair, the most emotion she has shown since she arrived. 

“Ah, that’s another thing, _my lord._ ” He says it like it’s a curse, eyes glittering madly even though all around them is dark. “She doesn’t speak anymore.”


	2. yours is a sorrow so deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Stark children know her - or they should know her. But Sansa is too different now and it's hard to reconcile her with the younger, brighter girl they once knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has left Kudos and comments on the first chapter. It's quite overwhelming because I didn't really expect people to say they enjoyed it as much as they did. Truly means a lot to me. You're all such champs! Bear in mind I will finally run out of chapters in a few months or so because I can't possibly keep up with the rate I'm posting - the life of a postgraduate student, unfortunately - but seeing as I've got everything planned out it shouldn't be too much of a problem to get the words down when I've got the time. Again, thanks to everyone who commented and do keep in mind that this is far-from-perfect canonically and that I've got selective memory and basically do what I want with plot and so on and so forth.

Bran

Sansa is all but asleep in the Kingslayer’s arms once they bring her inside. As soon as the direwolves saw her, they swarmed around the three new figures, two of whom, to Jon’s notice, were unafraid of the four imposing animals who licked at Sansa’s fingers, when she dropped her hand from clutching the Kingslayer’s chest. 

They knew she was coming back, Bran realises, as the wolves, even Shaggydog, have their tongues lolling about, an extra skip to their large paws and their tails wagging madly. They had caught her scent perhaps. Or mayhaps it was just that instinct that only animals have. They welcomed her in a way that was so much more fitting than the way the Stark children and Jon had welcomed her. The wolves knew her but none of them did. 

She is his sister and yet all he remembers is bright smiles, a sharp tongue and songs and dances that she would spontaneously break into in the middle of hallways and out in the yard. This girl is a stranger to him in more ways than just her appearance. 

_She doesn’t speak anymore._

That was what the Kingslayer had said and Bran had not understood it. Sansa was made for singing; she was born to it. He does not understand what the Kingslayer meant. 

The Kingslayer himself is a mystery all on his own. _Incest_ , they all whispered, and Bran had seen it and been punished unfairly for it. He has grown to accept it but when he looks at the golden-haired man, as rough and ragged as he appears, Bran doesn’t know how he feels. He thinks he should be angry but he also thinks he should be pleased at the golden hand that rests under Sansa’s knees. He’s lost something too – his sword hand. And yet Bran can derive no satisfaction for that exchange. 

Instead, the only emotion he can muster is guilt. Guilt that while his sister has returned to Winterfell he cannot scrounge up any sort of happiness. Guilt that he doesn’t know what to think now that their eldest Stark is back home in the North. Guilt that he had seen every one of his siblings save her in his dreams. Guilt that at one time she was a mother to him and Rickon when their own mother had travelled to the place of her birth and they cried that they missed her. Guilt that he had been so certain of her death he did not look for her. And most of all, guilt that whatever had happened to her over the years had made her return to them broken and frail and mute. 

Would there be no more songs for her? Would she never accompany her harp with a melody from her own lips? 

 

They sit around a table in his solar; Jon is silent, alternating between glaring at the Kingslayer and frowning at the table. The Kingslayer is casually wiping his golden hand and Brienne, the large, mountain of a woman, is in Sansa’s room, formerly their mother’s warmer chambers, keeping her company as she sleeps and Sam examines her. Arya’s face is inscrutable as she twirls a dagger between her fingers and Bran has to wonder what goes on in her mind. She and Sansa had rarely seen eye-to-eye, he recalls. She thought her older sister stupid and fickle and Bran had thought little of it at the time but now… Rickon, however, is playing by the fire but he keeps shooting glances towards the doors and some part of Bran knows instinctively that he’s waiting to see if Sansa will walk through the doors. It interests him; he did not think Rickon would remember her. 

“How did you find my sister,” he asks finally, breaking the silence. It’s the question they all want answered. 

The Kingslayer does not answer for a while, seeming very immersed in scraping the dirt that had got into the grooves of his golden fingers. “Do you know how many people you sister trusted to get her out of King’s Landing?” he asks lightly, examining his hand with a scrutinising eye. “All of them promised to help her leave but none of them delivered. The one that did took a girl who was just on the mend and turned out to be just another liar.” He looks up and meets Bran’s gaze, smiling slyly. “All men lie, Your Grace, but not all men are liars. Liars are dangerous and Petyr Baelish was perhaps the most dangerous of them all for a time.” He sighs and looks at each of them around the table, staring longest at Jon and Bran can tell that it is meant to bait, but Jon never rises to it. “We searched for a long time, you know?” he muses, his eyes far away. “Too long, I think. We stole in with the rest of the dragon woman’s army for we wanted to find her before anybody else did. And we did. And we ran. She led us out a secret way and for weeks we stayed in the mountains until the dragon woman’s men stopped swarming it.”

“And then you came here,” Arya speaks up finally. “My sister’s knight in white armour.” She smiles humourlessly. “How pleased she must have been.”

Bran wants to berate her and it seems that Jon wants to as well from the way he tenses but it is a snarling look that comes over the Kingslayer’s face that make them all freeze and for a brief moment, Bran thinks he’s looking into the turn cloak who killed the Mad King and he would be lying if he says it does not frighten him. 

“Do not speak of your sister like that, little one,” he whispers dangerously, his one hand white from where he is gripping his golden hand. “Hate me for what I have done but I will not let you blame her.”

“Enough!” Jon speaks, before Arya can attack him as she appears ready to with her teeth bared. “Sansa is found,” he says calmly, “we all thought her dead but whatever has kept her alive we should be grateful for.”

Arya sits back, still scowling but the Kingslayer smiles suddenly and it is dryly amused, accusing but most of all disgusted.

“And yet none of you have shown any form of happiness in regards to her return. Even your _dogs_ showed her more affection than any of you. You Northerners truly are cold hearted.”

And that, Bran thinks, with a heavy heart, is only too painfully true.

\--

Sam

Her hands are like a little bird’s, Sam thinks as he counts the beats to the pulse on her wrist. Too slow, even for sleep and her wrists are too thin, the veins raised and traveling in their spider’s web to the tips of her fingers. Her hair is so short and haphazardly cut that it is like fuzz in some places and thatch in others. Whatever Sam initially imagined Sansa Stark to look like, it was not this. 

“I know that food is scarce on the road,” he addresses the frighteningly tall woman who stands vigil on the other side of Lady Sansa’s bed, “but it seems to me as if she has been starved for a very long time.”

The woman, Brienne of Tarth, hesitates before answering, and though her voice is deep, it is undeniably feminine. “When we found her she was already thin. On the road she...fell sick.” Sam does not acknowledge that he senses the half-truth and simply listens on patiently. “It is not my place to say, Maester Tarly. There was a lot of blood. She refuses to eat a lot of the time. Once, Jaime lost his patience and tried to force her. He still has scars from where she clawed at him and she refused to speak to him for nigh a week.” Brienne leans down and, with a surprising amount of tenderness, strokes Lady Sansa’s forehead. “I believe what was once a wilful act has become something more than just habit. And I will admit that it frightens me. But perhaps now that she is home she will regain her spirits and her health.”

“Her health?” Sam repeats. “What else ails her?”

Brienne grimaces. “Her body is weak. You saw earlier, how she fell. Perhaps it is the lack of food for so long that it is starved. But she tires easily and her hands and legs tremble. When we were on the road she pushed herself to keep up with us even when we said it did not matter.” When she looks up, Sam notices that her blue eyes are narrowed in concern. “I think she did not want us to run out of food as spurred herself on even when she ached. We did the best we could. Her heart, as big and wonderful as it is, is not strong.”

“I don’t doubt you did all you could,” he reassures her immediately, and flinches out of the way when Shaggy saunters in, all wild fur and bright eyes. Of all the four remaining direwolves, Shaggy is the most volatile and he does not discriminate when he attacks. Arya was bitten once and she had yelled at Rickon, who merely swore back at her in the Old Tongue. It therefore surprises him when the wolf rises on his haunches and stares at Lady Sansa’s sleeping form, tail wagging in interest. 

“Prince Jon told me that the wolves are a reflection of their masters. It seems that the youngest Rickon is intrigued by the lady’s arrival,” he chuckles, somewhat nervously. 

The corners of Brienne’s lips turn upward so minutely that one can hardly call it a smile. Sam thinks her face must often be quite stern. 

“Is it true?” Sam asks then, perhaps too suddenly, for Brienne tenses and stands taller. “Is it true what the Kingslayer said? About…about Lady Sansa not speaking?”

It takes a long time for Brienne to answer, so long that Sam wonders whether he made a mistake asking her in the first place. 

“Yes,” she says finally, in a low, solemn voice. 

He knows that it is a sensitive topic of conversation, too soon for someone like him, who has never met the eldest Stark girl before to be inquiring about. But he can’t stop himself. 

“Why?”

This time Brienne’s eyes are hard as stone and Sam feels himself tremble under the intensity of her gaze. 

“Because she does not wish to speak of things anymore. Because she did not want to speak to those to kept her prisoner. Because she is afraid. There are many reasons she may have chosen to stop speaking but only _she_ knows why and I do not think she will appreciate any mention of it any time soon, Maester Tarly.”

Shaggydog continues to watch Lady Sansa with patience that Sam did not know the wolf possessed. He takes one last look at Brienne, who is watching him closely, and then bids a quiet goodnight, feeling dreadfully like he has overstayed. 

\--

 

Jon

It is difficult to sleep that first night so he sits in a comfortable chair by his window, looking at the scenery below. The snow continues to fall heavily and whenever he looks at it, all he can see are Sansa’s thin hands landing on the ground, turning red with cold as she struggles to rise. It is difficult to associate the girl he once knew with this silent woman who has returned to Winterfell. There is no doubt about it anymore; she is a woman, despite her small frame, which seemed even smaller when the Kingslayer picked her up and all but _cradled_ her in his arms. 

Jon wonders what she felt like to him, whether she really was as light as she looked. 

Again and again, the Kingslayer’s words come to mind. His anger on Sansa’s part at the greeting they had given her. Arya had been as unreadable as ever all throughout the evening and had little to say about Sansa. Bran looked troubled and Jon had seen the warring state of his mind about whether to go and see his sister or remain out of…fear? Out of all of them Rickon was the only restless one. Jon doesn’t think he has ever seen Rickon so _excited_ since he returned from Skagos. He would like to think that it was recognition he saw on the boy’s face for he couldn’t keep his eyes off Sansa and had walked next to the Kingslayer and stared at his sister the entire time until Bran ordered her to be taken to Lady Catelyn’s old chambers. 

Still, she is back now, and like always, they will learn to incorporate her back into their home and learn to live around her as they have learnt to live around one another once more. There is a gnawing feeling in his chest, though, like a snake trying to curl itself around his heart and sucking on his life’s blood. He wants to be happy, he thinks. He wants that feeling of elation he felt when he arrived back in Winterfell and saw Bran sitting where his lord father used to sit. He wants that feeling of joy when Rickon, no longer that little child that liked to ride on Jon’s shoulders, wandered in with Osha, half wild and half wolf, even as he threw himself at Bran and nuzzled into his neck, speaking in the Old Tongue that Jon had learnt from his time beyond the Wall. He wants that painful swell of gladness when Arya galloped in through the gates and jumped off her horse and into his arms, even as she shouted, “You’re my brother you prick, not some fucking Targaryen!” 

If it had been Robb who had walked through those gates, Jon was sure he would have wept for joy even as his brother – for he would always be Jon’s brother – would have laughed at him and teased him for being a baby. 

Instead it was Sansa. Ladylike, genteel Sansa who had always been every bit her mother’s daughter and worked to model herself after the Lady Catelyn. Jon knew Sansa the least of all and the woman she is know, he knows even less of. The presence of a Lannister, much less the Kingslayer, at her side is like a slap in the face, like an insult to Robb’s brief time as King in the North. An insult to _Bran_. 

_He’s the only one who came for her. He brought her home,_ the voice in his head mutters quietly but Jon can barely hear it over his hatred for Lannisters and especially Jaime Lannister, whom Sansa had practically clung to despite his sins and the sins of his house. 

He cannot say for certain that he had ever loved Sansa, and seeing her so new and different like that is like looking at a stranger. Instead, he feels a modicum of sadness at the fact that he cannot stir up the smallest amount of emotion for this girl who was lost. 

Perhaps the Kingslayer was right. Perhaps they truly are too cold hearted after all they have been through. 

\--

Bran

Sansa sleeps for near three days and while she wakes for food, she does not leave her chambers and Brienne does not leave her side. He is told that the Kingslayer stalks up and down the hall outside of her room, disappears for an hour or two occasionally, but is always nearby. He and Brienne apparently eat with Sansa when she awakes and they call for Sam to tend to her during these brief moments. 

The direwolves prowl outside her room and once or twice venture inside, so Sam reports. But Shaggydog is her most frequent visitor, which raises no small amount of surprise when he hears of it. He thinks once or twice about looking in on her through their eyes but refrains. She is his sister, he admonishes himself, and he should respect the aspects of a woman’s privacy until she is ready to see him. He is her brother, not her _king_. 

Life at Winterfell carries on but the one thing on everyone’s mind and lips is the Stark princess who has returned and whose face they have not seen properly since her arrival that stormy night. 

He wonders what Sansa would think now about being called a princess, whether it holds the same kind of grandeur and novelty and romanticism as it used to. She would have been a wonderful princess five years ago, he thinks. She would have flourished as royalty as she did in the days before she left for King’s Landing. 

“Why haven’t you gone to her?” Meera asks him one evening, eating an apple as she sits on his desk, legs swinging back and forth. “She’s your sister, isn’t she?”

“How very astute of you.”

She huffs, eyes bright and cheerful. “There’s no need to be so defensive. I’m asking you an honest question, _King_ Bran.”

Bran smiles secretly but does not look at her. He is far too busy looking at the accounts. 

“I’m sure Sansa won’t appreciate her family barging into her chambers and bombarding her with endless questions,” he settles on for an answer, scratching at the parchment with a scrawny quill. 

Meera hums under her breath, chewing crunchily. “Funny you should mention that. All her _family_ seems to have stayed clear of that side of the keep,” she remarks ponderously, but Bran can hear the criticism in her tone. “And the one who does want to go is told he’s not allowed.” Bran keeps his gaze down on the words and numbers in front of him but he has been going over the same line eight times already. “You’re all avoiding her. Your poor, harmless, sick, _mute_ sister whom you all thought was dead and you’re all avoiding her.” She sounds angry now, the same tone of derision that Jaime Lannister had used that evening. “Why?” she demands, shaking in her fury and indignation. “What doesn’t she live up to? And whatever it is she can’t even defend herself to you all!”

“Stop it,” he snaps, turning to glare at her. “I don’t know what you’re trying to imply but it is not like that.”

Meera huffs, incredulous and disbelieving, her brown hair bouncing as she jumps off the desk. “I’m ashamed of you. _You_ should be ashamed of yourself.”

With that, she leaves and Bran lets her go, feeling hot with anger or embarrassment or…or maybe even shame as she said he ought to feel. In truth, he doesn't know why he hasn’t seen Sansa, why he keeps himself infinitely busy. He ignores it once more, however, and picks up his quill again.

The next morning he sends a maid to request for Sansa and her companions join them all for breakfast in the hall if she feels well enough.

\--

Jon

It is the first time he’s seen her since her untimely arrival, and the first time he’s truly seen her face in about eight years. She stepped into the hall with her eyes lowered, her arm slipped through the Kingslayer’s and Brienne walking on her other side. Jon briefly wonders whether she goes anywhere without the unlikely pair of _saviours_. 

The pale grey dress that Jon is sure once belonged to her mother is too big on her from what he can see of it underneath her heavy furs. When she looks up at them, all three Starks and Jon seated at the high table, she freezes, and looks as if she’s about to drop into another one of her graceful curtsies when Jon, without a thought to what he’s doing, stands and pulls a chair out next to him. 

“Good morning,” he says and watches as she considers him for a moment too long before lowering her head in greeting. It’s funny; for a moment he had a thought that she might have greeted him back. To feel disappointed when she doesn’t is surely irrational on his part. 

With one of his smirking looks at Jon, the Kingslayer helps her into the chair and then flops down loudly in the seat next to her, until four eyes, two glaring, one solemn and one laughing, are focused on him. 

“Well, at least the little one doesn’t look like he’s at a funeral,” he remarks, winking at Rickon, who laughs with the same abandon Jon is used to hearing from the Free Folk. 

Arya stiffens next to him, glaring at the Kingslayer as she grips her spoon. “I’m sure you’d know,” she says, deceptively sweet, “you’ve been the cause of quite a few, haven’t you?”

Next to him, Sansa isn’t moving but Jon thinks he sees her try and gauge Arya’s face, her hands hovering above her lap. She surely must have known that this would be the Kingslayer’s reception after all their family as been through at his expense. 

“Arya,” Bran interrupts and Jon is grateful for stopping that conversation in its tracks. “Let’s not talk about such things this early in the morning and just enjoy breakfast.” He looks to Sansa and smiles when one of the kitchen ladies bring their three newcomers their breakfast. “It’s nothing complicated. We’re trying to save what we have for when it gets colder.”

Sansa nods in understanding and turns to her food, picking up her spoon with a dainty hand and stirring the porridge that has been sweetened with dried berries. From this close he can see her properly; the brittleness of her bones and the way her hand shakes as she lifts the nearly empty spoon to her lips. Whomever did that to her hair did a rough job of it and part of him wonders whether she did it to herself so as not to be recognised on the road to Winterfell. Whatever part of Lady Catelyn he had once reconciled with Sansa’s face is now nowhere to be found and Jon feels a pang of guilt at his gratitude for it. 

Shaggydog, who had been playing at Rickon’s feet, has moved under the table to Sansa’s knees and Jon watches discreetly in amazement as the wolf lays his head on her lap and licks at the fingers of her left hand. She doesn’t smile, in fact her expression barely changes a lick, but there is warmth somewhere on her pale, drawn face as she scratches Shaggy under his chin and behind his ears. He growls appreciatively and Jon hears Sansa sigh quietly before returning to her food. 

She hesitates and through the corner of his eye, Jon can see her looking around the table from beneath her lashes, and when the Kingslayer turns to say something to Brienne, she deftly scoops a large spoonful of porridge onto her spoon and deposits it on his unattended bowl. 

Jon is so stunned by this that he turns his face to her fully and then curses himself when she looks up at him with big eyes. 

Her face is too thin and her cheeks hollow as she swallows, probably from nerves. There are dark circles under her wide, frightened eyes but underlying that is what Jon thinks is defiance. She doesn’t blink nor cower away from him, almost as if she is daring him to say something. 

_Why?_ he wants to ask, but knows it’s useless for more reasons than the obvious one. _Why are you like this?_ is another question that would just go unanswered, at least to him. Perhaps Bran would have more of a chance with digging up her history, or maybe if he asked the Kingslayer enough times. Sam had said that he did not like discussing what went on with his patients with others but even he had said that Sansa had not spoken a word and Brienne had remained entirely close-lipped about matters concerning what she had witnessed. 

And who is _he_ to demand answers, he thinks to himself, bitterly. They had never truly loved one another, at least he thinks so on her part. _Half-brother_. The term still has a hold on him, though it has lessened over the years. Selfishly, Jon thinks that he doesn’t owe her anything, why should he not question her wastage of food when so many in the North go hungry? 

“My lady, take your time.” Brienne’s voice cuts through the tension and everyone save the Kingslayer looks between the two women who have nothing in common save for their lack of long hair. Brienne smiles encouragingly, though her eyes dart towards Jon and he knows that she saw. “It’s not good to eat too much too quickly after our rations on the road.” She’s defending her. 

Sansa nods and turns back to her food, shooting Jon one final, unreadable look, before facing away and had she had her long curtain of hair, Jon thinks she might have hidden her face behind it. 

\--

Bran

It takes Sansa longer than the rest of them to finish her food, even though she had sneaked some into the Kingslayer’s bowl more than once. He had seen it but not commented on it and had nearly called out to Jon when he saw him looking at her after catching her in the act. In the end he was grateful for Brienne’s quick thinking for the last thing he wants to do is put his oldest sister in a position where she has to explain herself. Either Brienne or the Kingslayer would have had to do so on her behalf and he can’t think of a worse insult to her at the moment. 

Still, her actions puzzle him and all through breakfast his mind was full of conversational topics and things that he might speak to her about. His courage has deserted him, however, and he knows not how to approach her while she is in this strange state. 

She’s been hurt, he thinks. Possibly even punished, and frightened terribly to the core. It is the only reason he can think of for the loss of her voice. It makes him sad that he can’t reach out and offer her any comfort for he does not know how. She had been motherly to him long ago, younger than he is now. She had regaled him with tales of the knights he used to worship and want to be. She is four years older than he is but he no longer knows how to talk to her and that is a loss that cuts deeply. 

Out of all of them she seems both the eldest for having seen too much, and the youngest and most easily startled. 

Therefore he doesn’t say anything when she rises to leave. Arya had left right after her food without excusing herself and Jon wanted to oversee repairs of the watchtowers. Rickon still watches her with barely concealed fascination and practically vibrates with the desire to follow her. But Bran had spoken to him and told all of them not to bother her too much. Out of all of them, though, Rickon was the only one who was openly disappointed by that decision. 

She curtsies before he can tell her to stop and is escorted to the door, but once there, she hesitates for a moment and then lays a hand atop the Kingslayer’s in a gesture requesting him to wait. Sansa walks back to him slowly, looking lost and unsure. 

“Is everything-?” 

He is silenced when she bends down and her cool hand lands gently on the side of his face and the kiss she presses to his forehead betrays so much more about her love for him than anything she doesn’t say could. 

When she’s gone, he can’t explain it but he feels like weeping.


	3. the disappearance of the girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rickon is fascinated by Sansa and he doesn't need to know her to love her and _know_ that he can love her. Jon remains on guard with the Kingslayer marring Winterfell with his presence and Bran and Jaime Lannister finally have a long awaited conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, a million thanks for all who have read and commended and kudos'd this story. I'm truly blown away by the encouraging responses I've received from you wonderful readers. I feel entirely undeserving of your praise. Most of the comments for the last chapter were about how _sad_ it was and that tissues were necessary. I won't say sorry, because it's wonderful to have touched anyone on such an emotional level, but I was also surprised because while I _do_ want this story to be very sad and a bit of a tear-jerker, I didn't think it'd turn out like that at all! 
> 
> Just a reminder that this story is un-betaed and will likely remain so until the end, but if there are any grammatical/spelling errors (I think we've already established how many canonical errors or conveniently changed facts there are in this fic) please let me know so I can rectify them, particularly if it irritates anyone. 
> 
> And just in case anyone's interested, I you can follow me on Tumblr at: owraithe.tumblr.com

Jaime

The youngest one – the _wildest_ one, wilder even than Arya Stark whom Jaime thought fancied herself a Wildling – has finally decided to forego whatever warning his brother and king gave him and enters Sansa’s chambers with the large black wolf at his heels. 

Though her back is turned to them, she notices immediately, and Jaime can practically feel her schooling her features before turning around to look at him. 

For all his naughtiness and rowdy manners, the boy looks shy now that he’s face to face with his long lost sister whom Jaime isn’t sure he even remembers. He’s a young boy – looks only about twelve or a little more – but his eyes are old and feral, much like his wolf that has taken a liking to Sansa. Ever the chivalrous, Jaime grins at the boy as he lounges in a chair by the window. 

“Which one are you, then?” he asks and Sansa shoots him a look. 

“Rickon,” he answers immediately, proudly. “N’ you’re Jaime Lannister, eh?” He looks Jaime up and down, assessing him the way only children know how. “Didn’t think you were g’na be so old.”

The hot wine he’s sipping goes down the wrong tube and he coughs loudly, at the unintended insult, and through his watering eyes he sees looking back at him with a mixture of concern and amusement, her lips pressed together tightly. Brienne, the rotten wench, clears her throat and turns her face away to hide her smile and Jaime glowers at the both of them, intending to set the boy straight once he regains control of his breathing. 

Unfortunately the insufferable child has already moved on and stands closer to Sansa, who is standing by her bed and twisting her hands together nervously. The black direwolf marches up to her and rubs itself around her body, more like a feline than a wolf. Still, the girl allows it and lets her fingers brush the creature behind its ears. 

Like so many times before, Brienne saves her and asks in a gentle voice that she reserves for Sansa Stark, and sometimes himself when he isn’t being an arrogant prick, “Would you like us to leave you, my lady?” Just because she looks like a bear doesn’t mean she has lost her female intuition. 

_No_ , Sansa mouths, scratching lightly at the short, red fuzz behind her ear, a habit she had already picked up when he found her. It’s an endearing motion and the sentimental side of him wants to pull her into his arms and cradle her and pepper soft kisses on top of her short but soft hair. He had told himself for so long that Sansa Stark was his last chance of redemption. He had never anticipated the gentle love that has grown inside of him, a love he has never experienced before and is doubly unsteadied for it. 

“Brienne, my sweet,” he calls earnestly, “would you mind giving me a hand?”

He waves his golden hand around. It is a joke he never tires of. One needs to find the humour in such situations. 

Rolling her pretty blue eyes, she stalks over to him but acknowledges his quick thinking with a subtle nod. They turn away from the awkward siblings, giving them some semblance of privacy, though there is a small mirror in front of him, proving them with a view of the events unfolding behind their backs. 

“Hello,” the boy says, his voice still young and clear, though it is marred by insecurity. “Sansa.”

Through the shuffling of skirts Jaime knows she has taken a step towards the boy and he can vaguely make out her hands stretched out towards him through the corner of his eye. The smile comes unbidden and involuntary to his mouth when Rickon reaches forward and clasps his hands with hers. He is a tall boy – nearly her height, and will only grow taller. Perhaps taller than the newly claimed Targaryen. 

That one Jaime will have to watch closely. 

\--

Rickon

His siblings are stupid, he thinks. They all tiptoe around her like a bunch of idiots, or avoid her completely. Rickon can see her, though. He had seen her on top of her horse though the rest of them only had eyes for their _Kingslayer_ and the Tarth woman. He hadn’t known it was going to be her, obviously. He might’ve been able to smell it on her if she’d been a little closer but even then it had been a long time. 

His brothers and sister all think he wouldn’t know Sansa. He doesn't understand why; he remembered all of them when Osha brought him back. She’d told him about them all from what little she knew and made sure to remind him almost every day. 

_You’re a lord, ye are,_ she would tell him. _Got a lord father n’ lady mother. An older brother called Robb and ‘im they call the King in the North. Got a bastard brother too, Jon Snow. Two sisters have ye. Your other brother, Bran said Arya’s a fighter, better than ‘im. The older one’s a lady with your red hair._

Of Robb and Jon he remembers running and games of hide and seek and broad shoulders which he sat on. Bran he could never forget and would die for him. Of Arya he remembers monster growls and wooden swords and a gruffer voice. Of Sansa he remembers songs and her girlish laughter whenever she played with him. He remembers soft hands that floated in front of his face, making shapes. He remembers long red hair that he had tugged out of spite to the point that she cried out in pain. He remembers lots of things about all of them and doesn’t know why they think Sansa should be any different. 

She is different now, though. And while if he were younger he might not understand, he understands perfectly now. He saw things in Skagos and heard stories that had frightened him. Just yesterday Osha told him of a Wildling woman who had been stolen from the South as a young girl and was so heartbroken at the loss of her home and family that she never spoke again. But Osha said that sometimes it can come back and he likes to think that maybe one day Sansa can come back too. 

She leads him to a round table and he takes care not to hold her hand too tightly lest he hurt her. This Sansa doesn’t have long hair but Rickon still thinks she is very pretty and thinks the Skaagosi would’ve thought so too. 

Jaime Lannister and the Tarth women are pretending not to listen but if Sansa hadn’t asked them to leave then she musn’t care what they talk about together. 

“Y’know, Osha taught me the Old Tongue? Learnt even more of it on Skagos.” He wants to impress her and show her that he’s grown up now. Grown and clever. 

She picks up a quill and writes something down. 

_You will have to teach me._

It takes him a little longer than others to read and make sense of the words. He’s only been learning his letters in the Common Tongue for around a year, though he can speak it as well as anyone else.

“ _You_ want to learn the Old Tongue? With all the cussin n’ everything?” he laughs, but feels giddy at the same time. 

Sansa arches her eyebrows and regards him speculatively. 

_Jon, Arya and Bran must not be too impressed with your new speech,_ she writes down. _Jon must be able to understand a little._

He nods. “Yeah, but his accent’s rubbish, it is. Osha says I speak like one of her people.” Rickon notices that she doesn’t call Jon and Bran ‘Your Grace’ but that hasn’t stopped her from curtseying to them, when she of all people shouldn’t have to. 

With a warm expression on her face, Sansa reaches out slowly, tentatively, and lays a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. 

He likes to think that she’s saying, ‘I’m proud of you,’ and maybe, judging by the kind way she’s looking at him, she is. 

He doesn't remember much of his mother, but if she were anything like Sansa, he knows he would have loved her.

\--

Jon

Jon is busy over the next few days – the snow has set their work on the watchtower, which they were going to use as a shelter for those whose houses are too damaged to protect against the cold, back by at least a month. It is difficult to delegate time spent between harvesting and storing food and ensuring everyone has a place to stay during the long winter ahead. His former Brothers at the Wall send him news that for now at least, all is quiet, but it is a tense kind of quiet that feels like the calm before the storm. Soon, the peace will break and this time the war will be in the North and perhaps, once it is all over, Jon will be here again, helping to rebuild the home of his childhood. 

He is grateful that Daenerys believed him and promised that she would answer should he ever call. They will need her dragons when the time comes if they want to limit their losses. 

“You’re looking positively morose. Not enjoying life as a Targaryen?” Val teases, sharpening a long spear of wood. 

He rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t ever a Targaryen. Wouldn’t know how to be one if they asked me.”

She laughs. “Maybe the Stark blood’s too cold to thaw,” she comments as her hands deftly whittle down the sharp point of the spear. They will line up thousands of them on the perimeter of Winterfell, and dip them in oil so they’ll stay strong all through the cold. “There’ll be ice dragons up beyond the Wall. Farther even than where you were. Reckon you can ride one o’ them?”

Jon shoots her a sceptical look, and continues to shovel clean snow for keeping and melting. Some of the folk wondered why he, a _prince_ was doing menial work around Winterfell, but Jon has never wanted that title so why should he take its liberties? 

“There’s no such thing as ice dragons.”

Val releases a startled laugh. “You’ve seen Walkers n’ giants n’ fire breathing dragons n’ your brother’s a greenseer but you won’t believe in ice dragons? Even the possibility of it?”

That much is true, and he feels a little silly for it and he and Val share a laugh. “Okay. I was stupid about that one.”

“How’s that girl cousin of yours, then?” The casualness with which she asks the question sends a warning through his ears but Jon knows better than to show it. 

“Which one?” he asks instead, and Val rolls her eyes and throws a handful of snow at him. 

“The red one, you oaf!” 

No one pays them any attention, too busy performing their own tasks, but Jon still looks around warily and then glares at Val in irritation. 

“There’s not much red about her now, that’s for sure.”

Val’s gaze pierces through him and Jon feels naked and attacked in a way only she knows how. “Some of the women said she was a right lady before.”

“They’d be right.”

“But not now?”

He huffs, feeling irritated and aggravated for some reason he cannot fathom. “I don’t know. It’s hard to tell if she doesn’t speak.”

Jon regrets it as soon as the words leave his lips. He feels low and detestable. It was an awful thing to say about the girl who had once been his sister and has very clearly been through _something_ to warrant her drastic change. Val’s burning gaze is welcome and when she storms towards him and smacks him hard on the back of the head he’s hardly surprised. Dizzy and momentarily stunned, but hardly surprised. 

“That was unkind, Jon Snow,” she says under her breath, her beautiful face twisted into a sneer. “Now I may not know her but I don’t like how you’ve been sulking ever since she came back. You can’t lead us if you can’t even lead yourself.” She smacks him again for good measure, but it’s lighter this time. “Do whatever you need to do and deal with it. Winter is coming, as you’re all so fond of reminding us.”

Val shakes her head at him and then begins to walk away, but Jon catches her arm before she can get too far. He doesn’t know what he wants to say though, what he wants to ask, if there is anything. He doesn’t know why he’s felt on edge since Sansa arrived. The obvious answer is the Kingslayer and Sansa’s obvious trust in him. But even though logic dictates that there’s nothing the Kingslayer can do now that his family is all but dead or held hostage and he’s the only lion in Winterfell. He hates the man, he knows that. He doesn’t know, though, what it is he feels for Sansa, and that gnaws at him. 

Features softening, she unpicks his fingers and frees her arm. “Stop being a fool, Jon Snow. You haven’t been one for so long an’ we don’t need you getting back into the habit now. Enjoy the peace while it lasts.”

\--

Jaime

He has been at Winterfell for over a fortnight before he finally receives the call.

He has been expecting this summons from the moment he arrived in Winterfell and so it’s little of a surprise when a servant knocks on the door of the chambers he has been allocated, right down the hall from Sansa’s rooms, and says that King Bran wishes to speak to him. Jaime has rather tired of dealing with kings and their whims but he knows that this one he cannot, and finds that he does not want to, ignore. 

Following the young, male servant – squire, perhaps? – Jaime ponders the various ways their talk is going to go and sees himself without a head more times than he is comfortable with. Still, he entertains himself with the notion that Sansa’s big, teary eyes might hold sway over the boy king. 

Thoughts of boys and kings force his mind to stray to more painful matters, though, and images of Tommen, the sound of his sweet voice not yet broken come unbidden to him. One day he will have to seek him out, the son he could have had if things had been different. He wonders if Tyrion is looking after him in Jaime’s absence and knows deep in his heart that if Tommen is still at King’s Landing Tyrion is doing all he can to keep the boy safe. Even Sansa only had smiles when he mentioned Tommen, and she once used a stick to draw five kittens in the dirt and a figure who must have been Tommen playing with them. 

He would have been a good king had he maintained his seat, Jaime knows. Better than any of his predecessors. 

The warm air of the boy’s chambers is a welcome relief to the ruined nerves of his stump and he massages the smooth top absently. The boy is sitting behind his desk and looks up when Jaime enters. 

“Your Grace.” He offers an overly dramatic bow but a bow nonetheless. 

He thinks he sees the boy’s lips twitch but it is gone before he can be sure. 

“Jaime Lannister,” he greets in return, motioning for him to sit. “I confess I’m not really sure what to call you. I used to think of you as Ser Jaime but you’re not a knight anymore, are you?”

“Alas, no, that title died the moment I left King’s Landing in search for your sister. I’ve had several names on the road; for those who don’t know my face it is easy to pass for someone else with a little brown dye.”

The boy frowns and tilts his head to the side in consideration. “Did you dye your beard too?”

The question catches him off guard and for a moment he thinks he’s going to laugh. But then he remembers that this king really is just a _boy_ , even if he is on the cusp of adulthood. There must still be childish notions and immature ideas running about his head and he cannot help the amused smile that comes to his lips. 

“I did, yes. Messy business that was.”

The boy hums to himself and taps a rhythm on the desk with his fingers. A moment later and he is pushing himself with his chair, using his desk and other heavy furniture for leverage. 

“Come sit with me by the fire, Jaime Lannister.”

It is casual and lacking in all the courtesies and proper behaviour that he has come to associate with King’s Landing. The North may be very different from the South but it is unlikely that all Northern kings will be as _easy_ as King Bran is. 

Once they are settled, Jaime sitting opposite him in a warm chair, the boy begins to speak. 

“I have not told Queen Daenerys that you are here, you know? I’m sure she’d have something very interesting to say about my harbouring the turn cloak who killed Mad Aerys in my home.”

In truth, Jaime had given little thought about the dragon queen in terms of being a monarch and a leader. She always just seemed like another young girl bent on revenge and taking what ‘belonged’ to her. He sees now that at least in regards to his own life he should have thought about it a little more. But then, he has been on the road for so long that such things and responsibilities often slip his mind.

“Well, that’s good, I suppose. I don’t think she’ll appreciate Sansa Stark, the missing Stark girl associating herself with the likes of the Kingslayer,” he remarks foppishly, watching closely for any reaction that might give away the boy’s thoughts on the matter. 

The boy king surprises him again by smiling and it is not a reassuring smile to Jaime. There is something… _other_ about it, about the way the light dances in his dark eyes. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end though no window is open to let in even the slightest gust of wind. For a long, terrifyingly cold moment, he feels very afraid but doesn't know why. 

He blinks and the moment is gone; the boy’s face is reserved but warm and his eyes welcoming, and whatever it was that Jaime saw and _felt_ earlier has vanished. 

“No,” he says, in almost a whisper. “I don’t think she would like it much either.” His wolf, whom Jaime had not seen in a while, moves to his master’s side and nudges his knees with his nose. 

Knees that belong to too skinny legs beneath those dark breeches. Legs that have not seen use for nigh eight long years. Legs that Jaime strangled the life out of when he pushed that child from the tower. 

“All is as it should be, Jaime Lannister.” He looks up and the boy’s eyes are heavy and solemn and though they are the wrong colour, he feels as if he is looking into Eddard Stark’s face and listening to the grave timbre of his voice. “I think…you are meant to be here, at least for the foreseeable future.”

He scoffs, and asks bitterly, “You were meant to lose your legs? Your mother and father and brother were _meant_ to perish?”

The words have left his mouth and he wishes to take them back. There is no respect in wiping the bloody sheets of the Stark’s lives in his face and he wants to apologise but it has been years since he has that he has forgotten how. 

The wet nose on his stump shocks him and he flinches in surprise. The wolf had at some point come to his feet and licks at Jaime’s bare wrist, making snuffling noises in his throat. 

When he looks up in surprise, the boy is leaning back in his chair, grinning lopsidedly. “The gods are not known for being good to us. And we are living in dark times that may only get darker and the night grows long. A good and wise friend told me that.” His smile turns rueful and sheepish. “She also told me that I am a stupid and foolish little boy for neglecting my sister as I have done. I have not been good to her. She is not what I remember. But _you_ and Brienne have been good to her, and for that I thank you. I thank you, Jaime Lannister, for bringing her home.”

Jaime does not speak. It is difficult to conjure the right words after such a speech that he feels anything but deserving of. It plays out that he doesn’t need to say anything for the boy continues. 

“Queen Daenerys shall not know that it was you who saved my sister. And you are welcome to stay at Winterfell for however long you like. I only ask that you and Brienne continue to care for Sansa.”

“I would never let anything happen to that girl,” Jaime says immediately, with such ferocity that it surprises himself. 

The boy smiles and nods. “Thank you, my lord.”


	4. i'll send a storm to capture your heart and bring you home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the darkness of the evening, Jon stumbles across a scene that sends dangerously painful thoughts slithering around his mind and creeping to his heart, constricting it until he can't breathe. Sansa decides that it's high time she set foot outside of the castle and finally acquaints herself with Meera Reed. Jojen makes an altogether strange impression on Jaime and Brienne because his eyes are too green and old and see their pasts as keenly as they see his little body. Despite what people might think, Arya does not, in fact, hate her sister. But neither can she scrounge up a modicum of love for her because her love has nearly dried up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've hit a bit of a stop with writing this story and so I'm going to update this in two weeks while I can manage it. Sorry about that but time is a luxury I don't have at the moment, and my essays, assignments and exams take precedent over fic-writing. Apologies, guys! But you're all real champs for your fantastic comments and for being so kind to me in leaving lovely reviews and kudos. Thanks a bunch for reading this canonical clusterfuck of a story and I can't wait to actually start writing the _good bits_ , if you know what I mean. ;)
> 
> Someone asked me for my Tumblr account and so if you'd like, you may follow my multiple fandom shenanigan on owraithe.tumblr.com (:

Jon

It has been about a month since Sansa returned and she has still yet to step out of the walls of the castle, much to his knowledge. When he questions Bran about it, he looks troubled but always says the same thing; when she is ready. 

Such an answer isn’t good enough for Jon. A part of him wants to go to her and start trying to get to know her but the other part of him feels odd seeking her out, the sister he knew least of all his siblings. He wonders sometimes, in moments before he falls asleep, whether she ever felt out of place amongst all her brothers and sister who all seemed more _Stark_ than she ever had. 

Back when he had thought his brothers and Arya dead or lost, and Sansa had still been at King’s Landing, he entertained the notion of her inheriting Winterfell and its unguaranteed future. But then they had slowly filtered into his life again, and Bran, with all his otherworldly wisdom was the king he would see in the North and a king he would bend the knee to. 

Before she returned, they had all spoken little of her. They had asked Arya who had seen her last, only to arrive at a dead end, and she grew less and less inclined to speak of her missing sister as the days went by with no word about her. Tyrion Lannister had been of little help when he explained the aftermath of Joffrey Water’s assassination and the subsequent _misplacement_ of his wife. Just to be _careful_ , however, the imp had beseeched Daenerys to annul the marriage, swearing all the oaths in the world that it had never been consummated. 

When he had sworn that Sansa was a sweet girl and one that he would never have touched without her permission with such sincerity, Jon had believed him. Now he wonders whether Sansa was a broken thing when Tyrion knew her or whether she became this way after fleeing King’s Landing and arriving at the Eyrie. 

But he’s finding the entire situation so incredibly complicated at the moment that it is impossible and untimely for him to try and make sense of it once and for all, for all their sakes. Jon doesn’t want to be cruel but he has a feeling that he will make more than one mistake when it comes to her. 

Tonight is warmer than usual and Jon revels at the chance to walk through the halls of Winterfell in lighter garb than usual. It is just after dinner for most of the castle staff, stretched as they are, and so he ends up greeting more than one individual over the course of his trek. It is exhausting and he doesn’t understand the reasoning behind Daenerys’ decision to allow him to maintain his title when everybody knows that she rules. Perhaps it serves as a reminder that there is Targaryen royalty in the North who serves as its warden and its protector, regardless of their King in the North. He also knows, though, that Nothrons will never see him as a Targaryen because they know his allegiance lies with Bran and his face bears all the makings of a Stark. That, he thinks sadly, but with a modicum of relief, is one thing Dany cannot understand.

He ducks into the kitchens and waves the scrabbling maids to return to their food. Ghost and Nymeria appear at his side as he’s leaving and Jon huffs, slipping his fingers into the fur of their raised heads, scratching behind their ears until they grumble loudly, eyes closed in pleasure. 

Movement in his periphery makes him look up and meet Shaggydog’s flashing eyes from where he stands, tall and erect, further down the hallway. Shaggy unnerves him – he’s volatile and unpredictable and Jon fears that it is too close a reflection of Rickon’s heart. Jon loves Rickon fiercely but being the youngest when their family fell apart left him more time to adapt and change than the rest of them. Shaggy had never shown any outward aggression to Jon but neither has Jon ever felt totally at ease around the creature. 

Shaggy’s head turns abruptly, his ears pricked at having caught some sound. Right before his eyes, Shaggy’s whole stance seems to change and relax and his mouth opens, letting his tongue flop out happily. He darts out of view around the corner and what surprises him even more is when Ghost moves to follow, with Nymeria leaping off only moments later. 

Whoever is on the receiving end of three large direwolves is likely to die of fright and Jon runs after the wolves as soon as the thought strikes him. 

The laughter reaches his ears and he slows down, realising that it’s only Rickon. Just as he turns the corner, though, his legs stall and he finds himself retreating once more until he is hidden in the shadow, peeping over the edge of the wall to take in the scene. 

Sansa is on her knees, barefoot and clad only in a plain nightdress and a grey shawl hanging about her arms and shoulders. Her arms are around Shaggy, who’s seated obediently, facing her with a wagging tail, happily accepting the kisses she plants all over his face. 

“That’s the first time Shaggydog’s ever been kissed afore!” Rickon laughs, rolling on top of Summer, who patiently allows his master’s brother to splay his entire body along his back like a clam. With surprisingly quick movements Sansa turns to him, smiling something so beautiful and long lost that the breath catches in his throat. She reaches out, beckoning Rickon to take her hand, and when he does, she pulls him in and peppers kisses all over his forehead and face, eliciting a round of infectious laughter and boyish giggles. Never once does he push her away, though, and simply clings to her with such unadulterated joy on his face as Jon has ever seen. 

He had not realised they had gotten so close, and watching it now reminds him of how their family used to be and the priceless contentedness they all shared as children. But as Jon watches Sansa’s fingers card through RIckon’s hair, hair that is longer than hers, he thinks of her not as the young girl so intent on becoming her mother, but as a young woman with a litter of children, little _Starks_ regardless of their father’s name playing around her, clutching at her skirts and squealing in delight. Mayhaps she would be a different kind of mother than Lady Catelyn, who loved her own children fiercely. But maybe, hopefully, there will be more warmth in Sansa.

“I love you, Sansa.” 

Jon almost doesn’t hear the quiet, earnest declaration, but he is fully aware of the way Sansa cups Rickon’s face and looks at him with such tenderness that it hurts, and mouths voicelessly, _I love you too._

When Ghost makes his way to her side and patiently allows her to use him as leverage to stand, on her still unsteady legs. She still pushes her food onto the Kingslayer or Brienne’s plates and one evening he turned back to his plate after helping Bran readjust his chair and found an extra boiled potato and Sansa taking a suspiciously long gulp of her warm, honeyed water. After that he had told the kitchens to put less food on her plate. Tonight he wonders how much her weakness stems from lack of food or from something else entirely. 

As she walks away from him, supported by Rickon on one side, Jon feels unbearably empty, like something important but without a name has just been taken away from him. 

The wolves have all followed _her_ , not Rickon, he knows. Part of him wants to follow her too but instead, Jon forces his feet to walk the opposite direction even though it’s much brighter the other way. 

\--

Jaime

When Sansa finally deems herself strong enough – confident enough, in his opinion – to leave the castle, much less her own side of the castle, Jaime can’t deny that he’s worried. Worried that the cold might set the growing strength of her body back indefinitely. Worried that her people might deem her unworthy after her public show of weakness the night she arrived. Worried for _himself_ because these days everyone has a dagger in their pockets and by now everybody must know of his foul deeds and the sins of his father. 

Sansa puts a stop to his inner musings the moment she catches it on his face, frowning disapprovingly and straightening his clothes. He makes no move to hide his wrapped stump as they brace themselves, the cold often freezing his golden hand to his skin. Brienne had fussed over him while Sansa was getting ready, telling him what not to do if someone were to hurl an insult his way. He could see the anxiety on her face, hear it in her voice and it is evident in her stance as they take their first steps outside in over a month. 

Sansa had told them countless times that they were not burdened with responsibility of her and that they were free to explore Winterfell as much as they liked. But Jaime knows in the bottom of his heart that she is his and Brienne’s shield amongst these Northeners, whose customs remain puzzling and oftentimes intimidating. He knows that without her he would never be welcome. Brienne, the endearingly unsociable and awkward woman that she is – although what she hides under her unflattering clothes is anything but masculine – probably feels duty bound to never leave her side as much as she is wary of conversing with the Northerners and the Wildlings. 

How strange, he thinks it; that they are as much her protectors as she is theirs. 

When her feet make the first crunch of snow, the chatter outside stops. Jaime doesn’t know who they’re looking at: their lost princess, the wench or the Kingslayer. 

The Wildlings – at least their clothes and faces are enough to identify them as such – stare openly at Sansa as her back straightens and she walks down the steps, face distantly polite. A pretty young woman with dark hair and deep green eyes stands from where she had been sitting and talking with a younger man who looks like her and who moves slower to follow. She smiles easily, a sweet, one-sided grin as she stalks over to Sansa, bowing easily in her breeches and boots. 

“Lady Sansa,” she greets, loudly enough for everyone to hear. “I’m Meera Reed and this is my brother, Jojen.” The boy smiles and Jaime feels perturbed by the unusual green of his eyes, which have slipped from Sansa to focus on him. The girl, Meera, speaks again. “It is good to finally meet you.”

Sansa’s face is uncharacteristically open, though to the others, perhaps she still seems cold and reserved. But her eyes a brighter as she considers the shorter woman, struggling with herself and her lack of voice. He supposes she is also relieved that _someone_ did something to ease the mountain tension and awkwardness of the situation. Meera waits patiently, something that Jaime is immensely grateful for, and, judging by her relaxed stance, so is Brienne. The men and women, though, are watching, rapt with attention and waiting. He can see the question on their faces; _Are the rumours true? Can she really not speak?_ Whatever defensive thought comes to mind disappears when Sansa takes one more step towards the girl and slowly reaches out to take her hand between both her own, clasping it as she nods in greeting and understanding. 

Meera smiles fully this time and then turns to Jaime and Brienne, nodding politely. 

“If the lady is amenable to it, I should like to walk with her.”

Sansa hesitates, then turns to them, her expression asking permission all on its own. It is when she does little things like these, deflects her true authority, that Jaime feels fiercely protective of her. But he can’t deny her this – perhaps the Reed girl will do well enough for Sansa compared to her fickle siblings. He knows he should be understanding – they have, after all, been through entirely too much for children so young. But his allegiance lies with Sansa, not with them. He is allowed this selfishness. 

“We go where you go, Lady Sansa. I am sure, Miss Reed, Lady Sansa will benefit from your company,” he says graciously, smiling lightly enough so Sansa can see his honesty. 

“We will follow behind you, my lady, to allow you some privacy,” Brienne adds, brooking no room for argument, amusingly enough to Jaime. He thinks of the children she may yet still have one day and barely manages to suppress a snort at the image. As if sensing his thoughts, the wench turns to him, managing to convey all her derision in one look.

Before she starts to leave, Jaime draws near and pulls her hood up, tying it securely at her neck. When she looks up at him in question, he murmurs affectionately, “So your ears don’t get cold.”

She beams, thought to others it might not seem so wide, but to Jaime it is pleasing. It does not skip his notice that Sansa hesitates before slipping her arm through Meera Reed’s proffered one, before they begin to walk, the girl talking all the while. 

The others have begun to filter back into their work but they look up when she passes and Sansa smiles and nods to them in greeting, even as she listens attentively to her companion. 

“She’ll be fine,” the boy, Jojen Reed, says, smiling enigmatically, and for a moment Jaime harks back to another conversation with a young boy with that same smile and the same old look in his eyes. He shakes the thought swiftly. There are already dragons. The older, darker lore need not be visited at this moment. “Meera has been talking incessantly about the Lady Sansa since she arrived.”

“Why?” asks Brienne, simply enough, but Jaime hears the undertone of sharpness and her blue eyes are already gazing keenly at the boy. 

The young Lord Reed smiles reassuringly but while Jaime may not have too many reservations about Lady Meera at this time, of Jojen he has quite the growing number. 

“Female companionship, I suppose. Lady Arya is very… _busy_ with other pursuits.”

Jaime does not like to think about the younger Stark girl. He wonders whether they called her Lady Stark before Sansa arrived but highly doubts the girl subscribes to the notions of titles. 

“She is a warrior,” Brienne supplies diplomatically, “I expect she is unused to the company of women.”

“Or she dislikes them,” he offers innocently, though Brienne’s flashing eyes and the boy’s suppressed smile indicate that it was taken as anything but.

Up ahead a fair-haired Wildling woman has joined the two women and he can see Sansa gazing at her in fascination as she speaks. He tenses, however, when the woman reaches into Sansa’s hood of her own volition, possibly inspecting her hair. He had always been defensive on the road whenever a stranger or the owner of the home they were seeking refuge pointed out her hair or made some crass remark about her. The woman looks as if she is about to say something important, but then seems to think twice about it, smiles sultrily and says something else. He is no stranger to such internal conversations. 

“You two must have been through a lot together.”

Brienne looks down at him, a small furrow between her brows. “All _three_ of us, you mean.”

Young Lord Reed looks surprised and sounds equally as honest. “I assumed the two of you met long before you decided to look for Lady Sansa.”

Too sharp and too keen, it seems. 

Jaime smiles thinly. “You assume correctly, it seems. Quite a mind you have, young man.”

“Jaime,” Brienne says warningly so only he can hear.

Surprising them both, however, the boy laughs quietly. “Ah, but my Lord Lannister,” he says, looking both too old and so very young, “your own mind is not without its intrigues.” 

Neither of them know quite what to say, and the boy bows politely and then excuses himself from their presence. 

“I don’t like that boy,” Brienne declares a few beats later and Jaime finds himself predisposed to agree. 

\--

Arya

Arya had watched from her hidden spot atop one of the watchtowers as Sansa, her older sister by two years, stepped outside of their childhood home for the first time since she returned. She watched as Bran’s little – literally _little_ – girlfriend introduced herself to Sansa and struck up a one-sided conversation with her. She watched the Kingslayer and the large woman as they followed behind her, watching her movements and the movements of everyone else around them. They are an odd trio, she thinks as she bites into an apple with a satisfying crunch. It’s one of the riper ones one of the men from the outlying villages had given to her when she passed by his cart with all the other food and wares he brought with him for storage at Winterfell. 

Their home is overflowing with people, more than it is physically capable of holding. Bran has already instructed their bannermen to house as many as they can from the little villages and towns near their own abodes. Arya feels quite useless when she is not fighting or teaching others how. Granted, their so-called training sessions are more like tavern brawls with little finesse and a lot of blood, but the Wildlings, or _Free Folk_ as Jon likes to call them, seem all to happy to exert their energy in such manner. 

Everyone at Winterfell is hardened, some more than others. Even Sansa, or so Bran constantly tries to convince her. 

She’d been lounging in his solar while he tired himself out on the ground, making use of his arms and upper body as she had instructed upon her own return. He had been in the middle of a push-up when the words left his lips, his voice hoarse with strain, 

“Why do you hate her so much?”

She didn’t answer. How _did_ one answer a question like that. 

“Is it because of the Kingslayer being here?”

_Why aren’t **you** angry about him being here?_ she wanted to ask, but continued to sharpen a dagger she had found in the armoury. 

“Do you blame her for what happened to Father?”

Her fingers stumbled over the sharpened blade before righting themselves again. It wasn’t much but this Bran, this King in the North, was far more receptive and astute than he had been in the past and it was enough to garner his attention. 

“Ah,” he said, stopping in his exercise and pushing himself to sitting position. “She was only Rickon’s age, you know.”

Of course she knew that. But _she_ had been even younger and _she_ had run. Sansa could not have run, though. Even if she had she would have lasted barely a day. She wonders whether this Sansa would have run but a knowledgeable part of her says that no, she would not run. But not because of fear. 

“You think I’m stupid for holding onto grudges or being angry for so long.”

Bran looked at her, seeing too much for one so young. He had told her of his adventures beyond the Wall. Of the Children of the Forest and the Three-Eyed Crow. Of the darkness and horror. Of the _ice_. 

“I think it’s exhausting.”

That much was true, at least. A bone-deep fatigue has settled into her body that some mornings she does not want to get out of bed when the dreams of the dead plague her and she is Nobody and has no name and no face. It is tiring to be angry. 

When Arya looks at Sansa she does not see anger, though. No hatred, no spite, no disdain. She only sees an exhaustion that looks and feels a million times heavier than her own. Like the weight of what she is feeling is physically hampering her movements. She has seen Sansa discreetly clutching her side sometimes as she walks away from her food. Although her skirts may hide her movements, Arya can hear the mismatched, uneven paces of her footsteps. 

Contrary to what Bran believes, Arya doesn’t hate Sansa. She had at one time, in the weeks and months after their father’s death, and the image of her stoic form atop the raised dais is burned into her mind’s eye. That hatred had turned into anger but then her life started to move too fast and even that was forgotten. She would never wish her any ill will or any pain or suffering. But if Sansa were to leave Winterfell tomorrow, Arya has the vaguely frightening notion that her departing would not hurt and that she would make no move to stop her. 

Does that mean she doesn’t love Sansa? Does that make her a cold, cruel girl who can’t even muster a modicum of affection for a sister she never got along with but never truly despised? 

Maybe that ship has sailed and there truly is no reconciliation possible between them. She doesn’t know what it is she feels as the thought hits her but she knows that she would die before entertaining the idea that the feeling is sadness.


End file.
